When breathing is rapid, the chest is heaving, my child is wheezing, and we can't catch up, there's only one choice:
Off to the ER.
But at least they have Gatorade. Not even diluted.
Tucker assured me that the words on the side said: Mommy, don't touch.
Fair enough, kiddo. The patient gets to be in charge of the beverage.
And he also gets new jammies when he throws up all over the clothes he wore into the hospital.
(No dice for the Mommy sitting nearby.)
It's always good to call your brother when you don't feel good.
Good thing Grandma lets him hold the cell phone, too.
(I'm not sure how intelligible the conversation was, but that hardly matters at all.)
Four hours later, and with heaps and heaps of intense meds,
we came home.
All we want for Christmas is some healthy lungs.